Chapter 2
HARRY
As we drive into downtown Warwick, the streets are lined with mature trees and historic brick buildings. A picturesque town square serves as the heart of the area, featuring what appears to be a centuries-old town hall with a clock tower. Marty McFly would feel right at home.
The Mighty Moose Commemorative Ice Rink takes up an entire block, and I wonder what had to be torn down to make room for it.
There’s nothing mighty about it, and I’m not exactly sure what it commemorates.
I’m not sure if the moose population in Rhode Island rivals ours in Maine, but maybe it’s a good sign about the game. Set? Match? I have no idea.
“Mr. Peterson, whaddya think?” Johnny asks.
With thick glasses strapped to his face by a lime-green athletic band that appears to be squeezing his poor head like a boa constrictor, Johnny peers up at me, and I remember I’m supposed to sound interested.
“The ice looks cold.”
“Good one, Mr. P.,” Victor Henson says.
Victor is almost a foot taller than Johnny, and when he wraps his arm around his shoulder, he misses it and ends up grabbing him by the neck. Based on Johnny’s reaction, he’s either used to it, doesn’t mind, or both.
“Yeah, good one.”
Johnny and Victor join the rest of the boys and head over to what appears to be our team’s designated area. I think it’s called a dugout. Or maybe that’s for football. Or maybe I’m just confusing it with a secret hideout for superheroes.
Scanning the arena, I quickly identify a cozy spot a few rows back where I can sit and catch up with my book while the boys unpack their bags of gear.
“Think fast!”
Oof. Something hits me in the middle of my chest. Hard.
“Mother of pearl!” The words come flying out before I can think, and the impact of whatever hit me registers. My eyes land on the culprit—a black disc lies at my feet.
“You were supposed to catch it,” Darius says.
“I told you, I’m here as a chaperone only. Why are you lobbing sports paraphernalia at me?”
“It’s called a puck. Come on, Peterson. You’re not getting off that easy.”
Coach Hill hooks his arm in mine and drags me toward the dugout superhero area, where the boys are already unpacking and covering their bodies with various pads. My elbow leads the rest of my body as he tugs me along, and why does he take such delight in tormenting me?
“I was going to sit over there and read until the game’s over,” I say, eyeing the seat I was heading for a few rows up.
“And miss all the action?”
His hand rests just over my chest, and he slaps me three times.
“No way. The boys and I need your help. Right, team?”
“Right, Coach!”
I’m not exactly sure if they’ve heard him or are conditioned to give that response whenever he asks a question.
“Mr. Peterson,” Johnny says, “Coach Applegate usually sets up the cones for warm-up drills, gathers the pucks, and runs the penalty kill and defense.”
I blink a few times, trying to decipher the nonsensical words he’s uttering.
“I have no idea what any of that means,” I say with a shrug.
“Sit here.”
Darius’s hands are on my shoulders, guiding me to the end of a long wooden bench overlooking the rink. When he gets me where he wants me, he pushes down, and my ass hits the hard surface.
“Just watch. Listen. Got it, Coach?”
“I’m not . . .”
“When you’re here”—he points to the ice—“with them, you’re Coach Peterson.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Darius Hill has rendered me speechless.
I’m tempted to retrieve the novel from my satchel.
I’m tabbing character arcs for the coming week’s lessons.
My intention is to highlight the flaws and explore how they influence character motivations, propelling the plot forward.
I think it’ll help students with their writing as well.
A loud whistle interrupts my train of thought. The metallic culprit falls from Darius’s plump lips and bounces against his sternum. When I catch his gaze, his mischievous wink sends a flurry of butterflies fluttering in my stomach, and my eyes dart away.
He’s giving directions, yelling in that PE teacher way that mostly sounds like he’s screaming, but the kids don’t seem bothered in the least, and I surmise this must be how he regularly communicates with them.
Victor and Craig skate onto the ice, plopping orange cones down.
Before I can take my book out and resume tabbing, the rest of the boys flood the ice, skating around them with their sticks and pushing pucks around.
There’s an almost balletic quality to the entire endeavor, and I wonder if any of them have ever seen Swan Lake.
Next to me on the bench, Darius finishes lacing up his skates and rises.
He doesn’t wobble or hold on for balance; he simply stands above his blades.
Before he joins the boys, he turns and says, “Maybe if you can keep your nose out of that book for a minute, you’ll learn something. I’ll quiz you later in the hotel room.”
He winks, turns, and zooms off. Heat flashes from my chest, creeping up my neck, and overtaking my face. Is Darius Hill flirting with me?
As the game finally transpires, the boys—whom I’ve wrangled into their desks and convinced to sit still for close to an hour at a time, often reading silently while barely moving—create a blur of motion on the ice, all centered on a puck that, truth be told, I can barely see.
I started the game staring at the giant clock above the rink, watching it to determine when this would all end so I might grab some peaceful reading time back in the hotel before returning to the bus in the morning and heading home.
But as play progresses, I find myself drawn to the vim and vigor of the boys.
Johnny sits next to me, doing his best to explain the basics of play. I make a joke about wishing the Sharks were playing the Jets instead of the Otters, but it flies right over poor Johnny’s head.
“When do you get a turn?” I ask.
“Oh, Coach doesn’t put me in,” Johnny replies. “But it’s okay. I’m not very good. I just like practicing and being part of the team.”
My mind flashes back to being ten, watching my father and brothers play football on Thanksgiving morning. Wanting to be included but also petrified of playing. Running inside to help my mother in the kitchen.
I know enough from Johnny’s explanation to know we’re in the last period, and if our team doesn’t get the tiny black disc into the opposing team’s goal, we lose.
If we can score, it will be a tie, and both teams will advance to the next round.
Johnny said something about that being a peewee rule, and in the NHL, there’s overtime that sometimes can last a really long time.
I’m grateful we’re not facing that possible scenario.
But now that the game is almost over, and the Sharks are down 1-0, my heart races in anticipation of the loss.
“Well, that’s it.” Darius plops down on the bench, sandwiching Johnny between us.
He’s been on his feet the entire time, pacing, smacking his gum, screaming, and huddling with the boys.
He has a mini whiteboard he’s used to scribble what Johnny explains are plays but that the boys never seem to execute as instructed.
If nothing else, the entire experience has been entertaining.
“There’s still a minute left in the period,” I say, nodding toward the giant timepiece with a satisfied grin. I pay attention. I can read a digital clock. I know a single term related to the event!
Darius looks at me, his big hazel eyes wide, and for the first time, his confidence seems to wane.
His hand grips Johnny’s leg over the padding of his hockey pants, and I finally get it.
Darius and I share the same motive for being here.
The boys. I’m here so they can play. He’s here so they can win.
“It’s okay, Coach. We tried our best,” Johnny says. He puts his hand on Darius’s, and witnessing this tender moment between them sparks something in me.
“But there’s still a minute left,” I say. “Well, forty-five seconds now. We just need one touchdown.”
“Goal,” Johnny says.
“Goal. Basket. Touchdown. It’s all semantics. Coach Hill, surely we can wrangle a home run from these boys.”
Darius’s gaze meets mine, and he blinks, pulling his lips in and nodding slowly.
“You’re right. We’re not rolling over and giving up. We’re the Sharks. If we’re going down, we’re going down fighting.”
He stands, leans over the railing to the rink, raises his right hand, and shouts, “Timeout!”
The referee blows his whistle, and the Sharks scurry off the ice and onto the bench. Shoulders are slumped. Chins are down. The boys seem well aware that this marks the end of their run for the season.
Next year, they’ll be off to middle school, where they’ll transform into Wildcats.
Over one summer, they’ll leave the ocean, grow four legs, and become entirely different animals.
This was their swan song. Their shark song, so to speak.
I don’t think sharks sing, but I’m not a science teacher—I’ll have to ask Mr. Butters.
“Sharks. We have . . .” Darius glances up at the clock that stands frozen for the moment. “Forty-two seconds. I’m not expecting a miracle, but we didn’t drive all the way to Rhode Island to not give it our all.”
As I sit on the bench, a smile crosses my face as I observe him pacing back and forth, pouring his heart into the pep talk for the sullen boys.
“I know I don’t teach math, but let me tell you—you miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.” He pulls in a quick breath. “Johnny, I’m tapping you in.”
Johnny’s eyes almost pop out of his head, and I wrap my arm around him, giving him a silent squeeze of support.
“But . . .” Johnny isn’t able to finish before Darius interrupts.
“But nothing. You’ve got this, Rodriguez. Go out there, and take your shot. You’ve got nothing to lose.”
“Except the game, and our spot in the finals,” Victor says matter-of-factly.
“True,” Darius replies. “But we’ve got this. Team, I want you to back Johnny up. Don’t let those Otters near him.”
Darius flashes his whiteboard. There’s a drawing, and he’s scribbling, making arrows all over the place as he talks with complete determination on his face.
“Craig and Nicholas, lure them away, create a distraction. Protect the puck. Then Johnny can take his shot. Their goalie is tired. I saw him yawning. Shoot on the outside.”
There’s more scrawling on the board, and the boys nod their heads, their pre-game liveliness returning.
“Okay, let’s do this, Sharks!” Darius shouts.
The team calls back “Go, Sharks!” and they skate out onto the ice.
I don’t remember standing, but I’m next to Darius, leaning over the ice, watching the boys take their places as the referee blows his whistle, and they take off in a gust. I do my best to keep my focus on Johnny.
He’s smaller than everyone else on the ice, but when Benji hurls the puck at him, he manages to keep it away from the Otters—mostly because, just as Darius instructed, Craig and Nicholas skate circles around anyone who comes close, diverting them from stealing the prize.
When I glance up at the clock, it flashes twenty, and the loud, obnoxious buzzer that ended the first two sessions is imminent. Johnny seems to know it’s now or never. He skates across the ice, passing about fifteen feet from the goalie, who tracks him with his mask-covered face.
Johnny pulls his stick back, about to shoot, and the goalie falls on his knees, holding his armored hands high, ready to block—but nothing happens. Johnny skillfully maneuvers the puck forward, deceiving the goalie with a swift move before effortlessly propelling it into the other side of the net.
Screams fill the air as the boys go wild, jumping and piling onto Johnny, making it impossible for me to see him anymore.
“Fuck, yes!” Darius screams, and I hope the boys don’t hear their PE teacher and coach using such foul language over the roar in the rink.
“He did it. He fucking did it!” Darius grabs my shoulders and pulls me into a huge embrace, lifting me off the floor and tossing me back and forth like a rag doll.
I’m lightheaded, and I’m not sure if it’s from being off the ground, the shaking, or being plastered against Darius’s frame.
Even through his track jacket, the firmness of his chest sends a jolt of intensity through my body.
The boys chant, “Coach, Coach, Coach,” and Darius lowers me. For a split second, my face comes closer to his than I expect, his warm peppermint breath blowing the curls off my forehead before he turns and joins his team on the ice.
I remain on the safe, non-slippery ground, experiencing a surge of gratification as I witness the team surrounding him with affection. A smile bursts across my face, and a sense of pride swells within me. Contrary to everything I’ve believed my entire life, maybe sports aren’t so bad after all.